Surreal
by Smilers and Winders
Summary: The Fall. John's P.O.V.


"Stop there."

John froze, mid-search in the street. "Sherlock?"

"Okay. Look up, I'm on the rooftop."

"Oh, God."

Sherlock stood on the top of St. Bart's Hospital, on the very ledge that could potentially leave him flying to his death.

_What are you doing, Sherlock? Why are you up there? Are you being forced to say this? Jesus Christ…_

"I – I – I can't come down, so we'll…we'll have to do it this way," Sherlock stammered, coat tails flapping in the wind.

_What? Of course you can. Just climb down the stairs or whatever got you up there…Oh my God…Sherlock. Don't do this. What are you doing?_

"What's going on?" John had said these words so many times. They'd never sounded so confused and lost.

A beat. A pause. An awful, terrible, horrifying stop before Sherlock's next words.

"An apology. It's all true."

"W-_What?"_

"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty."

"Why are you saying this…?" John asked.

"I'm a fake," he spat. Sherlock sounded like he was choking on something. _Tears? _

_"Sherlock."_

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly – in fact, tell anyone who will listen, that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

His voice was breaking.

_No._

**_No._**

_God, no…_

John shook his head, feeling light, his stomach twisting round and round in his body.

"Okay. Shut up, Sherlock, shut up – the first time we met. The _first time we met – _you knew all about my sister, right?"

"_Nobody_ could be that clever," Sherlock retorted sorrowfully.

Without hesitation, John replied in a softer tone.

"_You_ could."

He heard Sherlock let out a _…short laugh? Christ. Don't do this. Sherlock, please. _

_Please._

Then another dreadful pause, longer than the first.

"I researched you…Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you."

_No, no, no, Sherlock, no. I don't believe it._

"It's a trick. Just a magic trick."

John shook his head again, choosing frustration over tears. "No. All right, _stop it now."_

He started across the street again, towards the door.

"No! Stay exactly where you are. Don't move," Sherlock exclaimed, trying to keep his voice level.

John stopped, looking at the rooftop again and raising his arms. "All right."

From the rooftop, he could see Sherlock raise his arm down towards John, hand outstretched.

John backed up to his original spot in the street, mirroring Sherlock's motion of arm-hand-reach.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me! …Please, will you do this for me?"

"Do what…?"

He took a deep breath to regain himself." Inhale, exhale, he reminded himself.

"This phone call – it's - er…it's my note."

John's eyes searched back and forth, checking Sherlock's body language from what he could see from where he stood.

"That's what people do, don't they?"

_Stop it._

_Please._

"Leave a note?"

_Keep the conversation going._

_God, Sherlock don't do this._

"Leave a note when?" he breathed.

"Goodbye, John."

John was desperate, now. His brain worked so much faster than his mouth, so all he got out was:

"No, don't –"

The line was dead. John didn't even bother hanging up. His hands drooping to his side, fist clenched around his mobile, he screamed Sherlock's name.

The detective spread his arms outward like a bird about to take flight, and fell forward.

John's hearing went white.

He could see the figure plummeting to the ground, limbs flying insanely through the air, as if the man could attempt to actually hang on to the London oxygen itself.

_Thud. _A body coated in black fell to the pavement.

Violins filled John's head, a screeching, frantic melody.

He started towards the bloody body, the words "Sherlock, Sherlock" still being whispered helplessly. He was met by a cyclist and fell abruptly to the gravel. For a moment, he was back in Afghanistan.

He struggled at first, wanting to just lay there in pity for himself, but lifted himself and began to run in a dizzying motion towards Sherlock.

_"If you were about to die, what would your last words be?"_

_"Please, God, let me live."_

_"Oh, come on! Use your imagination, John."_

_"I don't need to."_

_Please, God, let him live, _John now thought desperately. His stomach had settled on terrifying dread.

_Closer. Closer._

_There, almost there. Hold on, Sherlock. I'll save you. Watch me. I will save you. You're my friend. My best friend and I'm so sorry. Not a machine. Not a machine. Human. So, so incredibly human. ._

There was a group of bystanders and medical assistants standing around the body. John weakly pushed people aside with a breathless "I'm a doctor" and "let me come through".

_"This is my friend, John Watson."_

_"'Friend?' -"_

_"Colleage."_

"No, he's my friend – he's my friend. Please…"

He felt lightheaded as a nurse and two other bystanders held him back from touching the bloody man, worried looks on their faces, telling him that he can't. The medics are coming. Let them take care of it. Please stay back, sir.

With an unexpected lunge of strength, he stumbled forward to take Sherlock's limp wrist to feel for a pulse.

_Nothing._

_Nothing._

_Nothing._

It was gone.

_Why?_

He saw a dark hand take his own wrist away while another pair of hands dragged him away. People on each side of him attempted to hold him back once again.

"_Please,_ let me just…"

A kneeling man next to the body rolled Sherlock over on his back.

The face was streaked with lines of fresh scarlet blood, and his sparkling grey-blue eyes were now opaque and empty, his skin as pale olive as ever. His dark brown hair was soaked and covered in dark blood.

John slumped to the ground, barely hanging onto consciousness from the cyclist and the shock, and was caught by the nurse and another man held him before he could hit the ground, his knees barely scathing the pavement, head lolling against the arm holding him up. The blood drained from John's face.

_Jesus. Why…why? Sherlock…Sh…_

"Nnngh…oh, Jesus, no," he heard tumble out of his mouth slowly.

"God, no."

_You're a soldier. _

He stood up, setting emotion aside and putting his shoulders back. "Are you all right?" and

"Do you need help?" came the offers from other bystanders and nurses. John simply closed his eyes, shaking his head, raising his hands up in defeat, telling them he could manage.

And before he knew it, he was left standing alone, watching his friend, bloody and broken, lifted by the paramedics and set on the stretcher, arm hanging off the edge.

_Sherlock._

_I'm so sorry._

_**A/N: All right! So there's that. Sorry for any feels (not really actually :D). I owe a bit of credit to Ariane DeVere because I used her absolutely fabulous transcript for the episode. Thank you! :)**_

_**R&Rs (including constructive criticism) is welcome and appreciated!**_

_**-Smilers and Winders**_

_**PS. I was thinking about doing a P.O.V of the grave scene as a second (and last) chapter. Thoughts?**_


End file.
